Full Circle
by MistWraith
Summary: Chap. 4. Sam wanted to grab a machete and cut his own head off to stop the headaches. There would be no point in asking Dean to do it he would only say, “No.” The selfish bastard. LAST PART UP NOW. Please R
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing of The Pretty. More's the pity.

**A/N**: This is not a WIP; it's completed, I just have to edit each chapter. It is also _ragingly_ AU. Hope you enjoy. Please read and review.

**Full Circle**

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

Sam was brooding again. _Wow. That hasn't happened in, oh, about—_Dean Winchester checked his watch _–ten whole seconds. I need to call this in to the papers!_ Oblivious to his big brother's silent sarcasm, Sam continued to stare moodily out the side window.

Then Sam sighed. _Here is comes,_ Dean noted, still silently. _Wait for it._

"We don't seem to getting anywhere," Sam muttered.

Dean was determined not to be drawn into the latest round of Winchester angst. Between _his_ emotional turmoil and guilt since his father traded his life, and soul, a year ago for Dean's life—and Dean was struggling every day to keep control because Sammy needed him to (though there was no way he would ever be able to move past it; not until he could find a way to get John Winchester out of Hell)—and Sam's increasing fears and depression over the Demon's plans and that damn "secret" of Dad's, they were both in danger of being dragged over the edge.

So, nope, _not_ playing this time.

"Au contraire, Sammy...what? Learned a few things on that New Orleans gig. Where was I? Oh, yeah, you are, as usual, wrong." He peered through the front window. "See? There. Mile marker 274 and we started at mile marker 39. We have _definitely_ gotten somewhere."

Yep, there it was. A slight twitch of Sam's lips. Sammy just had to remember they were _Winchesters_, and thus they sneered in the face of demons, things that go bump in the night and irate fathers of nubile daughters.

_And after convincing Sam, you just need to convince yourself._

At least, _he_ had somewhat found his way again. For a while, after his father had made the fucking trade and whispered that damnable secret in his son's ear—_And, thanks, Dad, for telling me how sorry you were for putting all that burden on me all those years, just before dumping a mountain range on my head!_—he had been adrift, weary, soulsick, wanting there to be an end; then one morning, during that month they had lain low and searched fruitlessly for Ava, he woke up and knew he could not keep on like that. He was destroying his brother, whom he loved beyond reason and whom he had always protected, and he simply had to pull it together for Sammy's sake. And because, whether he had wanted it or not, his father _had_ sacrificed himself for his elder son; Dean could _not_ let it be for nothing.

So, bit by bit, he was working at healing himself and pulling Sam back from the shadows. That yellow-eyed son-of-a-bitch was _not_ going to send the last two Winchesters running for cover and hiding like a pair of rabbits. Sam may have a connection to the Demon, but evil was always a _choice_. The Demon could push and poke and threaten and cajole, but if Sam stood firm, the Demon would never have him.

And Dean would see that Sam stood firm if he had to cement Sam's feet in place.

They had decided to take the fight to the Demon. They continued to hunt other things that lurked in the dark, because to turn aside from saving innocents would be to give the Demon a victory, but they also stepped up the efforts to find the other marked psychics, persuading those they could to join together and taking down those who had become minions of the Shadow. They worked on Sam's visions and he was beginning to gain control of them. And they searched for ways to kill the damn bastard that had made the Winchesters targets in the first place.

They had had some successes and some setbacks, but they had re-found their fire and the victories had given them reasons to believe they might not be hopelessly outmatched. So, it had really ticked Dean off when something new had raised its fugly head and sneered at him.

Once again, Dean was keeping a secret from his brother, only this time it was about himself and not about Sam. A couple of months ago, Dean had started to have _odd_ dreams. Not visions like Sam's as far as he could tell, but not his usual dreams, or even his usual nightmares. Flashes of blinding light; feelings of love and peace, then of anger and great betrayal; flashing swords; the beat of wings; and lastly, a sense of duty and honor followed by a profound loss and a deep sorrow. Over and over.

Dean had no idea what the damn things meant. Or why he was having them. He steadfastly refused to consider that he, too, might have powers, just _really_ late-blooming. One psychic wonder in the Winchester family was one too many as far as he was concerned. He was looking to _remove_ Sam's abilities if he could, not develop his own.

Worse still was that he suspected that Sam might be getting some nightmares now, too. His younger brother had not had _real_ nightmares in over a year, just visions, though some of them came as dreams. What Sam had started having, though—for a week now—were clearly not visions, as Sam made no effort to race off and save someone after having one.

Instead, it had caused Sam to fall into one of his brooding, endless, whiny, pissy, emo, angsty _moods_—to the point where Dean was seriously considering shoving Sam out of the car and making him run along behind—and had started him questioning what they were dong for the first time in a long time. Dean wondered if it would change anything if he revealed that he, too, was having dreams. Or would it just make it worse if they discovered they were having the _same_ damn dreams? Some developing link between them—most people already thought there was one, but it was really just more that they understood each other so well—or a sending? If it were the latter, was it from the fucking Demon?

No, damn it! He had fought his way out of a guilt and depression that had threatened to incapacitate him. He had helped Sam deal with the fallout from the reveal of the secret his father had left with him. He would be damned if he would let some weird dreams throw them off stride now.

He glanced over at his brother. "We're getting somewhere, Sammy," he said firmly. "And the Demon knows it, so it's trying to screw with us. Ain't gonna happen."

Sam met his eyes and then a tentative, but genuine, smile flickered across his face. He nodded once and went back to perusing the road ahead. Dean strained his ears then barely restrained a grin. His brother was humming.

See? He knew humming Metallica calmed you down.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

**A/N: **Next section as soon as I get it typed and edited.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: All belongs to Eric Kripke and WB. I get nothing except the enjoyment of watching The Pretty.

**A/N**: Chapter 2 here; there should only be four in total. Thanks to everyone for the kind reviews of Chapter 1!

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

**Full Circle—Chapter 2**

Dean took a deep breath and wiped a sleeve across his brow to keep the sweat from dripping into his eyes. The "poltergeist" had turned out to be a fucking demon, and a corporeal one at that. It had thrown Sammy across the room and had then nearly put Dean through a wall. The brothers had managed to keep it at bay with holy water and the names of God, but the blessed athamés had been knocked away. Dean thought he could get at one, but their first priority was getting the children to safety. And seeing how Dean had managed to twist his ankle into a pretzel during one of the later attacks by the demon, that task would have to be undertaken by Sam while Dean kept the demon busy. No matter _how_ much Sammy protested.

And protest he did, but Dean was the immoveable object. He simply gestured at the children.

"They come first, Sammy; you know that," he said quietly. He pointed at his ankle. "I'd only be a liability right now."

Dean could practically _see_ Sam's brain working furiously to find an alternative and he knew the instant his younger brother gave up the struggle and accepted the inevitable. He pulled the Impala's keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Sam, who caught them one-handed.

"If I don't call you, don't come back. You won't be able to help and you could be putting yourself into danger."

"Like hell," Sam growled fiercely. He was blinking rapidly and Dean knew Sam was trying not to have some embarrassing chick-flick moment. "I'm coming back whether you call or not. And if you get yourself killed, jerk, I promise _not_ to burn your body. You got that?"

Dean fought a quiet smile at the ultimate threat in the Winchester universe. "Got it." He reached out and punched Sam lightly on one arm, since, or course, he did _not_ do hugs. _Naw. You just stop your car on the side of the road and weep all over your brother about how dead things should stay dead. He probably would have preferred a hug!_

Sam herded the children ahead of him and out of the room. He looked over his shoulder once at Dean, who gave him a brief nod, and then he was gone.

Dean tried touching his bad leg to the floor again and gritted his teeth. One athamé had gone out a window when Sam had been thrown—and if Sam had intentionally _tried_ to pull that maneuver off, he could not have done it. Chaos in operation—but Dean's had ended up in the corner of the master bedroom when he had first been knocked down. They had made it to the first floor before Dean had messed up his leg. The large curving stairway, normally no obstacle at all, had turned into frigging Mount Everest, each step making him want to chop his ankle off just to stop the excruciating agony. He was almost reduced to crawling by the time he reached the top.

Grasping the balcony railing, he practically pulled himself to the bedroom. At the doorway, he could see the athamé still lying in the corner and he let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding. He was only a few steps away from it when the shadow detached itself from the wall and coalesced into a solid figure, vaguely humanoid in shape, eyes burning red.

_Damn, I **knew** it had been too easy. It probably just had a great time watching me drag myself up the stairs!_

Dean was hurtled back against the all, which suddenly _flowed_ over his wrists and ankles as a restraint. He knew then he was not getting out of this in one piece.

"Little human," the demon hissed. "What a nice prize you are! The Lord will be most pleased with me, perhaps even raise me in rank. He has realized it was foolish to let you live; you have proven to be a great nuisance."

"It's nice to be recognized for your accomplishments," Dean said, with an air of unconcern he did not really feel.

"Unimportant as they truly are," the demon replied. "You will die here and no one will remember you. There will not even be a grave marker bearing the name 'Dean Winchester'."

"Course not," Dean said, trying for his usual 'mask all that nasty pain' attitude, "since that's only two-third's of my name and gives _no_ clue to my awesomeness. I can see it now: 'Dean Michael Winchester, Royal Pain in the Ass to Demons Everywhere'." Then his tone turned fierce and serious. "_Sam_ will remember. And all the hunters and the people I've helped to save. Oh, yeah, _Evil_ will remember me, too. Maybe I didn't get to do everything I wanted to—I'm really _bummed_ about the Grand Canyon—but there will be people who will remember." And, at that moment, he truly believed it.

"Too bad, then, your death makes useless your father's oh-so-noble sacrifice. _That_ will please my Master as well."

Dean managed not to flinch and, for just an instant, he struggled against the feeling he had failed his family yet again. He had managed to find some level ground against his raging guilt, supported by two pillars: keeping Sam out of the damn Demon's plans (and saving the world at the same time), and finding a way to get his father out of Hell. If he died here at the whim of some demonic nobody, then his father's sacrifice counted for nothing, and Sam ended up alone and unprotected.

He had run out of time to worry about it. Agony suddenly blazed across his chest, a searing fire that should have left him a blackened corpse, yet he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he remained unmarked. Distantly, he could hear someone screaming and he figured it was probably him.

Blackness moved in but he knew it would only be a temporary respite. The demon would never let it end this quickly.

_I'm sorry, Sammy. Who's going to watch out for you now?_

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

_Humans were **so** fragile_, the demon noted with a smile, as it looked out of one of the windows and listened to the lovely screams behind it. _The one thing that keeps getting in the way of playing with them as much as one would like to._ Not that it had any intention of letting _this_ human off this easily. The Winchesters had been annoyances for far too long. It would have its fun for a while longer, then it would bring the boy's head to its master.

As it smiled happily to itself, anticipating the rewards to come, it suddenly noticed the room growing strangely brighter and it frowned, the human abruptly forgotten. Then it heard a laugh, deep, rich, mellifluous, golden. It was a laugh it had heard only once in person—and that was eons ago—but over and over again in the nightmares to which even demons were heir.

It knew then there would be no rewards in its future. In truth, there would be no _future_ in its future.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

Not even the Impala's powerful engine could produce an iota of more speed; it was already straining to its limit. Which did not stop Sam from still trying to push the accelerator pedal through the floorboard. He had dropped the children off with their grateful parents and was running for the car before they could even utter one word of thanks.

Even so, it had taken too long, _much_ too long. Enough time for the demon to have killed Dean ten times over. He cursed the demon, the distance and his brother's overdeveloped sense of self-sacrifice. At least, he hoped that was all it was—as dangerous as it could be—and none of the weary desire to see it all ended that had plagued Dean for several months after their father's death.

Screeching around a curve in the road, he saw the long driveway that led up to the old house. He took the turn at speed, swinging wide and barely avoiding a tree.

_Easy, Sam. Dean will kill you if you scratch his baby!_

He mouthed a silent prayer. _Please let Dean be there to kill me for scratching the car. Amen._

Sam slammed on the brakes, bringing the Impala to a halt about fifty feet back from the house itself. He stepped out and scanned the darkened, shadow-shrouded structure with increasing desperation. Then a shadow among the shadows detached itself from the front of the house and began to hop slowly toward him, leaning on what appeared to be a piece of railing as a crutch.

Sam closed his eyes briefly and gave thanks to whoever was listening, then he raced toward his limping brother, a huge grin on his face. Being tall had certain advantages in the leg-length department and he covered the ground between them in a couple of seconds and cast a practiced eye over his brother. There were bruises, ripped skin at the wrists that told of restraints and the original bad ankle. All in all, it could have been worse.

"It was."

Sam's eyes widened in astonishment. "How did you...?"

Dean smirked at him. "I don't need telepathy around you, Sam. You kinda write it in big letters all over your face." He winced. "It did some stuff that didn't leave a mark. Which is a pretty neat trick, when you think about it."

"How did you get away?" Sam asked, wanting to offer an arm to assist Dean in walking but knowing it would be refused.

"I'd love to say it was because I'm just that damn incredible," Dean said with a smirk, "but that would be fibbing. And you know that a Winchester never fibs. Except, of course, when we need to. Or when we want to. Or when the truth is really messy. Or--"

Sam held up a hand. "Got it. We lie. A lot. And...?"

"Well, you heard the saying, "There's always a bigger fish in the sea'?" At Sam's nod, Dean's smile turned nasty. "Seems our boy got eaten by something _really_ big. When I could think clearly again, there was a demon-shaped burn mark on one wall, and I was lying on the ground 'cause the wall had let go." Dean scowled at his wrists. "I think I have _splinters_, for God's sake."

_Splinters?_ Sam figured he would work that last part out later. Right now, he was torn between laughing with relief and hitting Dean for scaring him. As before, his thoughts must have played across his face because Dean gave him a bright smile.

"See? I knew there was nothing for you to worry about."

Which, Sam had learned at a young age, was DeanSpeak for, "Sorry I worried you, Sammy."

_Apology accepted, big brother._

Though...he could not shake his uneasiness about what had killed the demon but left alive one of the despised Winchesters. And he hated things he could not figure out.

**TBC**

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

**A/N**: Halfway mark! Yes, I gave Dean a middle name; Kripke's left it up for grabs! Hope it's still working okay for you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: Not mine! Darn it.

**A/N**: Here's chapter three; turning for home! Thanks to everyone for the lovely reviews.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

Sam shot bolt upright in bed. He rubbed an arm across his eyes to wipe away the sweat. Another damn nightmare. Definitely _not_ a vision. Hell, he had been having these dreams for months now; if they were visions, the events would have happened a hundred times over.

And what the hell kind of dreams were these? Flashes of light; feelings of love and peace, then anger and a sense of great betrayal; flashing swords; the beat of winds; then rage and pain and darkness. The last part had gotten stronger over the last few weeks. So much anger. So much darkness. And recently new images had been added: glimpses of yet _different_ conflict, and hate and searing pain and then a feeling of floating and someone—someone he thought he loved—calling to him.

For a while, Dean appeared to have been having odd dreams, too, and Sam had entertained the fanciful idea that the two of them had somehow been having the same ones. But then Dean's dreams seemed to have stopped abruptly right after that demon had been destroyed at that old house—at least Sam, who sometimes tried to stay awake just to avoid yet another stroll through the same unspooling images, thought that Dean was now sleeping peacefully through the night—just when Sam's nightmare had upped the image count.

Dean, in fact, had suddenly seemed to have found peace when awake as well. The haunted look, the burden of guilt he had carried since that day in the hospital, appeared gone. In its place, Dean had acquired something Sam would have believed impossible: an even greater urge to protect his little brother.

If Sam were being totally honest, Dean was beginning to annoy the hell out of him.

Every time he looked up, Dean was watching him, this almost _hopeful_ expression on his face, which faded when Sam eyed him warily.

Sam turned his head now, pretty sure what he would find. Yep. Dean was now wide awake, propped up on one elbow and watching him intently. Dean was _definitely_ getting on his last nerve.

When Sam scowled at Dean, his brother's expression changed subtly. He continued to study Sam, but the intentness faded, replaced by hint of sorrow and, behind that, determination.

That was when Sam had an epiphany. Dean _had_ been having the same dreams initially and now Dean knew something about what they meant. Somehow, _something_ had happened and his older brother had figured them out, or researched them, or asked the right source…there was a twinge of something Sam recognized as petty jealousy.

_You always tell Dean it doesn't matter he never went to college, it doesn't make him any less intelligent. But push comes to shove, you don't really believe it yourself, college boy. It ticks you off when Dean figures out something you can't!_

Pissed at his own less-than-generous thoughts, Sam carefully schooled his expression to avoid giving anything away to Dean. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Dean's feelings.

No, what he _really_ wanted to do was _hit_ his big brother, who was keeping yet another damn secret from him!

He wearily rubbed his eyes. What did Dean know? And how annoying was Sam going to have to get in order to push Dean into revealing it?

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

Sam tapped his fingers relentlessly on the passenger door panel, despite increasingly irritated glances from his brother. Finally, with a growl, Dean reached across Sam with one arm to grab the offending digits, ignoring the resulting swerve of the Impala.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, watching the distance close between the front of the Impala and a tree on the side of the road.

A "damn!" was followed by a sharp snap of the steering wheel to the left that straightened out the car's path of travel. Sam let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

"Jeez, Dean. Pay attention!"

"Then cut it out!"

"I will if you will." _Sheesh, Sam, not sounding too much like a six-year old, are you?_

Dean looked puzzled. "What the hell does _that_ mean?"

"You keep looking at me, as if you expect me to cluck like a chicken or something, and then you look disappointed."

"Hell, yeah," Dean said with the hint of a smile, "I've been waiting for you to cluck like a chicken for years now. You'd be disappointed, too."

_Okay, Free Ride to Stanford, you handed him that one. Idiot._

Changing his tack slightly, Sam said, "I've been having bad dreams."

"Stop the presses, 'cause _that's_ never happened before," came the more-than-slightly sarcastic reply. The Dean sighed. "I know, Sammy, but you won't talk about them."

Dean glanced over briefly before turning back to watch the road. "Are they about Jess again?'

Sam shook his head. "I-I have no idea what they are about. They were the same ones until a few weeks ago, then there were new images added." His jaw tightened with determination. "You've had some bad dreams yourself, haven't you? And, yes, I _will_ keep nagging until you tell me!"

"Yeah, because the last time you did that, it turned out so well," Dean said, referring to the reveal of what their dad had told Dean in the hospital.

Sam was not backing down. "Well, I sure hope, big brother, the answer to this question is not quite on that level."

Dean lowered his eyes briefly and shifted uncomfortably. "Almost, Sammy, almost."

Sam sat up, staring at his brother apprehensively. "What? Dean, _what_?"

"Dad...Dad came in the dream and told me I had to take you to," Dean cleared his throat, "Denmark."

Sam blinked. _Okay, **so** not the same dream!_

"Denmark?" Sam repeated. "Why?"

"So you can get an operation to make your outside match the freaking emo girl you are inside!"

If he had not been concerned about the car wrapping itself around a tree, Sam would have strangled his brother. He settled for glaring at Dean.

"Nice try, but I want a _real_ answer!"

After a moment, Dean sighed. "Yeah, I had some dreams a while back. They were...oddball. Then they just stopped. I haven't had one in weeks. Okay? Happy now?"

"What were they about?" Sam asked. He did not look at Dean, suddenly finding a loose thread on his jacket extremely interesting.

"Not a damn clue. Just a whole bunch of weird stuff. And not _one_ naked boob." Dean sounded almost indignant.

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean was always Dean. _And once that would have made me grimace. Now, I'm just grateful._

"You would tell me anything important, wouldn't you?" Sam hated how desperate and lost he sounded.

Dean sighed again. "Sammy, if there was something I could tell you, I would."

It took Sam a few minutes to realize just how _carefully_ that had been worded.

**TBC**

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

**A/N**: I know this one was a little shorter, but it seemed the only place to break the chapter. The last chapter will be the longest of the bunch, so it will make up for this one a little!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: Just like the pony I wanted, I don't get to own these guys either! Phooey.

**A/N**: Last part. As I said at the beginning, it's AU! The note at the end (no peeking!) explains where this insane plot bunny started. Along with a bit of coincidence in regard to an ep of the show.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

**Chapter 4**

Over the next few weeks, they managed to track down a few more of the Demon's psychic not-such-kids-anymore targets. They were able to line a few more up on their side, those who were already resisting the blandishments, pressure and threats they had been experiencing in their dreams. Others were lost causes and the ensuing tussles had left the brothers more than a little bruised.

Sam had stopped really caring if their "army" grew or not anymore; the dreams had been giving him a terrible time. If they could be called dreams anymore, now that he was seeing them while he was awake. Not like visions; more like an overlay. See-through images in front of the real world, leaving migraines in their wake.

At the moment, he truly believed he was going crazy.

Dean kept watching Sam carefully, with concern written all over his face, and he stayed close as if trying to give comfort with his presence alone.

Ash had contacted them about a possible psychic kid. While the pattern into which Sam fell fit only a few of the "special children", over time they had uncovered other factors and had passed them along to Ash to look for. He had just found them another potential ally.

Sam had struggled through the entire trip to keep from charging to the trunk of the car, grabbing a machete and cutting his own head off. There would be no point, after all, in asking Dean to do it; he would only say, "No." The selfish bastard. What kind of a brother refuses a teeny weeny request like that, when he knows his younger brother is ready to gouge out an eyeball if it would stop the damn headaches?

It was becoming increasingly impossible to see the reality behind the waking dreams. Once or twice, Dean had had to keep him from walking into something; his brother rarely left his side these days. So, even though Sam considered himself a liability in the field, he was never left behind at the motel.

The dreams—or whatever the hell they were—God, they were the stuff of nightmares! He could barely remember back to the earlier ones, which seemed to be pleasant fantasies compared to the current ones. Now, it was all darkness and death and destruction, and a once-shining light turned blacker than the deepest cave. There were screams. Terrible screams, cries of pain and terror from souls too numerous to ever be counted.

And he knew somehow that he was to blame.

That knowledge ate at him, though he could not tell if it were a vision of things yet to be or a glimpse of something in--a past?--life.

A hand fell on his shoulder and he jumped. Turning his head, he saw Dean, peering at him worriedly.

"Earth to Sam. We're here." Dean sighed. 'I'd love to leave you here, but I'm afraid to have you out of my sight. A baby could take you down right now."

He opened the driver's door and began to step out. Through the ever-present screams, Sam could hear Dean mutter something. He thought it sounded like, "Wish you'd stop fighting it," but that made no sense.

Sam struggled out of the car, staggered and might have fallen if Dean had not grabbed his arm and steadied him. He shook the hand off, tired of needing help, tired of the waking nightmares, just...tired.

The house was trim and neat, a one-level structure with pale gray shingles and white trim and a small porch. As they approached, they could see the front door standing wide open. Dean pulled a handgun from his waistband and shifted so he was in front of Sam. Sam grimaced but knew that, in his present condition, he hardly an asset to the team.

Dean glided up the porch stairs and halted at the open door. He jacked the gun, then peered carefully around the door jamb. After a moment, he started silently into the house, gesturing for Sam to follow him. As Sam stepped into the entrance hallway, he felt a chill run down his spine.

_Someone just walked over my grave._

An overturned chair, a mug lying on its side in a pool of liquid—someone had fled the living room in haste. Dean turned from the signs of a panicked withdrawal, his mouth set in a grim line. He exited through the doorway at the rear of the living room, heading for the bedrooms in the back half of the house, Sam trailing in his wake and struggling to push the images of his nightmare aside.

The door to the master bedroom had been kicked open with enough power to partially pull one hinge from the frame. Standing behind Dean and peering over his shorter brother's shoulder, Sam could see the body lying on its back. Young, male, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, throat slit.

"Damn," Dean swore. "What the hell? I thought the Demon wanted them alive."

Sam rubbed his forehead against the blinding pain. "I guess if It couldn't turn him, It couldn't afford to have him run loose."

It hit them both at the same time, the distinctive odor of sulfur. Dean whirled, moving to once again put himself between Sam and possible danger. Sam expected to see a possessed host at the door.

He was wrong. A shadow seemed to rise from the floor. It swirled and coalesced into a bipedal figure, dark reptilian skin, taloned fingers and eyes that seemed to be transparent glass that looked into a raging internal fire.

"Son of a bitch." It was a snarl, even as Dena moved forward toward the now-corporeal demon.

It moved with inhuman speed, a backhand that tossed Dean completely across the room.

"Dean!" Sam tried to take a step toward his brother, only to find himself picked up and pinned against the wall.

The demon laughed. "And here I thought to remove but one recalcitrant human who had become an annoyance to my Master, and what do I find? The accursed Winchester brothers, who have been so much more than an annoyance, and one of whom my Master diligently seeks to have join him." It laughed again, displaying an impressive array of fangs. "My Master has been too kind—in demonic terms, of course—I believe it is time to _insist_, rather than urge."

Sam glared at the demon. "I will never serve that bastard; I'll die first!"

The fire behind the demon's eyes flared and the beast laughed again. "How very noble. But what I had in mind was—very slowly—killing your brother. Perhaps that would lead you to reconsider?"

Searing pain spiked through his head as his migraine flared and, for a moment, he could no longer even see the demon, only the ever-present images of his nightmare. And, somewhere behind the pain, rage coursed through him. Some part of Sam wanted nothing so much as to rip the demon's heart out with his bare hands.

Dimly, he heard his brother's voice, urging him not to give in to the "fucking bastard". Dean's words were cut off abruptly by a cry of pain and Sam's fists clenched.

_Not again! I won't let some damn hellspawn do this to Dean again!_

His fury toward the demon, toward the darkness and all creatures of the shadow, blazed, white hot. Then, suddenly, all the images that had plagued him coalesced, riding on the crest of his anger, and he realized they were linear, a history. The glory that had been the early days and the Presence of the Most High, the arrogance and self-absorption that became anger, the war, the Fall, the corruption and decay, the hate, the desire to hurt and destroy, the betrayal by those he had ruled, the rebirth. He was, he had been—

--_Sama'el!_ Power, not anger, coursed through him now and without thinking, he threw a bolt of fire at the demon. The reek of sulfur filled his nostrils and then there was nothing but a pile of ashes. And the rush of memory.

He swayed, crushed by it. Once, he had blazed with the golden light and power of an archangel, Sama'el the light bearer, but his pride had led him to challenge for mastery of all and he had gathered followers and marched on the Throne itself.

He had lost, defeated by an infinitely greater warrior, the Prince of Angels, and had been cast out. The Fall had burned, but not so brightly as his hatred, which shriveled everything within him. Over time, his outside had come to resemble the sere and terrible thing he had become inside.

_Satan_. _He was Satan!_ And all the pain and suffering, destruction and despair visited by Hell on humans could be laid at his feet. Including his parents, for Sam Winchester was as much a part of him as Sama'el, and so were John and Mary Winchester. Their deaths stained his hands, as did everything that Dean had suffered over the years.

All of it, his fault. Before his Fall, because of his arrogance, his indifference to the suffering of others; after it, because of his hatred, his desire to harm what God cared about, and his pain.

The screams were back, eons of pain and torment, crashing down on him. He swayed and fell to his knees, his hands over his eyes. There was one long, terrible cry and he realized it was his own.

Then there was warmth ringing his wrists, pulling his hands down. A presence as familiar as his own was beside him, and with a sudden wonder, he realized that it was his brother. And that he had _always_ been his brother.

"Mika!" It was both amazement and desperate need. "Mika! What I'd become, what I did!"

Then he was being rocked gently in his brother's arms. He was not surprised: Mika'el had always been more demonstrative than Dean. Sam knew now why Dean's dreams had stopped, why Dean had kept studying him. His brother had remembered who he was well before Sam had and he had been watching for Sam to remember as well.

"I know, Sama, I know. But you are not that being anymore, and you could never be him again. Now that you've been mortal."

Sam's tapped his brother's arm weakly. "I don't understand; how did this happen? And wasn't I, um, dead?"

"Dead is a relative term, isn't it?" Dean grinned. "How's your memory doing, little brother? Remember the palace coup?"

Sam pushed away and leaned back against the wall. "Oh, yeah, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, the whole crew. Guess they decided they didn't want to serve in Hell any more than they did in Heaven." He gave his brother a rueful smile. "What's this universe coming to when you can't trust a bunch of deceitful, lying, rotten-to-the-core demons?"

Dean—it would take, he thought, a long time for Sam to stop seeing the Dean overlay—scooted over so that his back was against the wall as well, and laughed. "There's no honor anywhere, is there?"'

Sam touched Dean's arm lightly. "Yes, there is. I'm sitting next to it." He picked carefully at a thread on his jeans, suddenly unable to meet his brother's eyes. "Did...did the Most High ever doubt you would stand firm at the head of the Host and bar the gates against me?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. We were a bit of an experiment, you and I. All of us are kindred, but the Most High chose to create a different bond between us. Was there ever a concern that my feelings for you would lead me to, at the least, remove myself from the conflict? I _hope_ not." He looked over at Sam. "Sama, I love you ferociously, but I love and reverence God even more. And duty and honor, they are an essential part of who I am.

"Anyway, after your former subordinates took you down, I saw a chance to save you. You were hovering between here, and _gone_. I went to the Most High and asked for another chance for you. And it was decided to have you reborn in mortal form. I would come first, to help you, and I would remember who I was before you, after you started to recall things."

Sam could still not meet Dean's eyes. "But what if, what if it happens again, Mika? All the horrible things I've done!"

Dean shifted to face Sam, and he gripped Sam's arms. "Sama, you fell because all you knew was power and glory, and so many beings in the universe bending a knee to you. In your pride and, yes, selfishness, you came to believe that all reverence should be directed at you.

"But now, you know what it is to be cold and wet and hungry and so tired you can barely put one foot in front of the other. You have learned how hard it is to build and how easy it is to destroy. You have known terrible loss and you have grieved. You've felt pain and fear, and know what it is to be hunted and driven into the ground." Dean tightened his grip and shook Sam very lightly. "I have _no_ fear, none, that you could ever become that twisted creature again."

Sam struggled to beat back the tears; the last he thing he needed was another, "Samantha, you are such a _girl_!" from his brother. But he made no effort to stop the smile that spread across his face.

"Thanks. You've always been a better brother than I deserved."

Dean leaned back against the wall again and seemed to consider the comment. Then he grinned, "Yep, I have. You'll have to make that up to me, won't you?"

Sam frowned, then asked quietly, "Dad's message...Mika, did he _know_?"

Dean shook his head. "I didn't realize it at the time because I didn't remember who we were, but the message wasn't really from Dad; it was from the Most High. I was being put on notice that if this worked, then you were welcome back into the fold, but if it didn't, if you came back not Sama'el but Satan, there were to be no third chances and no banishment this time. I was to take you down."

Dean's jaw worked for a moment and Sam hurt to realize how hard that would have been for his brother, and that Mika'el would have carried that grief for all eternity.

Dean surged suddenly to his feet, extended a hand to Sam and pulled the younger man up. He carefully dusted Sam's jacket off.

"Now—let's go get that yellow-eyed son of a bitch!"

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

In the end, the Demon never stood a chance. It just did not realize it when the two of them first confronted it. Behind the Demon, they could just see the beginning stages of a hellmouth forming, something they had no intention of permitting to continue.

It laughed when they stormed into the battlefield, an abandoned junkyard outside of a very small town in Nebraska. Earth would never know that the apocalypse was fought amidst the corpses of abandoned cars.

Flanking the Demon were several minions, one of whom wore a familiar face: Duane Tanner. Sam glanced over at Dean and shrugged.

"I should have let you shoot him," he said.

Before he had a chance to react, his brother's hand shot out and whacked him on the back of the head. "Remember that in the future. Big brother is _always_ right."

"The Winchester brothers, together to the end," the Demon said with a nasty grin. "How very touching. And it is the end, you know. No more escapes for you." It glanced at Dean. "Today _you_ die; your father's oh-so-noble sacrifice was for nothing in the end. And baby brother, he will be mine, a weapon I can bring to hand."

"Naw," Dean replied, leaning against the burnt-out shell of an SUV, his arms crossed, "I think you have things backwards. Today, you son-of-a-bitch, we're going to burn your ass."

Dean pushed off the side of the vehicle and gave the Demon a cool smile. "C'mon, Asmodeus, you can't be _that_ stupid. You don't recognize Sammy over here?"

The Demon started slightly at the sound of his name. "How do you know...?" It turned and looked at Sam again.

Dean tried to be helpful. He placed his hand underneath and around Sam's chin and squeezed it, and elevated Sam's face slightly. He then turned it back and forth to catch the light. Sam finally knocked Dean's hand away.

"Will you stop that, asshole?" he growled.

"Hey, just trying to help here!" Dean looked back at Asmodeus. "I know he looks totally human, but sheesh, the _features_ are the same, even if they lack that heavenly radiance thingy. Sure, it's been a _long_ time since he's looked this good; he got pretty gross, disgusting and ugly after the Fall--" Dean serenely ignored Sam's indignant 'hey!' "--but you should remember what the being you followed into rebellion against God looked like."

Asmodeus' eyes widened and It stared at Sam again. This time, the penny dropped. It took a step backward, fear writ large across Its features.

"Yep, you got it. It's your former boss—who, I might add, is somewhat peeved at you for your part in the revolt against him, even though it actually worked out for the best. It's the principle of the thing, you know?" Dean said with a cheerful smile. "Of course, if _he's_ Sama'el, guess who that makes _me_?"

Asmodeus made a choked sound and scuttled farther back.

"_Absolutely_ right, Azzy. God's perfect warrior. In all the history of existence, I have never lost in battle." Dean's smile turned feral. "Today is _not_ going to be the day that mars my perfect record.."

"And we'll see to it that the hellmouth shuts, and _stays_ shut!" Sam added. A dangerous glint entered his eyes. "I will totally enjoy taking you apart. And mostly for what you've done to the Winchesters. Too bad, isn't it, that you never saw all the _real_ power hidden behind those stupid visions? But then, God never intended you to."

Dean made a face. "Okay, all this talk is really getting boring! Somebody say, 'one-two-three go'!"

Sam laughed. "One-two-three, _go!_"

It really was no contest. Even on his best day, Asmodeus alone would not have been a match for Sama'el, much less for Mika'el, whose name was a battle cry among the Host of Heaven. With a command, they caused the demons to vacate the hosts' bodies, and then blew the disembodied hellspawn apart before they could escape.

Except for Asmodeus. Sam realized that Mika—okay, _Dean_—might have harbored just the teensiest bit of anger against Sama'el's former subordinate. Dean proceeded to bounce the disembodied demon off every piece of junk in the yard.

"—for my Mom, and that's for my Dad, and that's for my dysfunctional family, and _that's_ for my fucked up childhood, and that's for Jess, and that's for scaring Sammy half to death for the last three years, and that's for T-boning my baby, and..."

Sam settled to the ground, cross-legged and smiled. It did not appear that Dean was going to run out of rant any time soon.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

The junkyard was finally silent. Sam continued to sit after Asmodeus had been finally dispatched, watching his still-fuming brother, reminded again why the universe tended to duck when the Archangel Mika'el was swinging his sword. Finally, Dean walked over, sighed and shrugged.

"Guess I was a little more pissed at him than I thought."

Sam laughed. "Guess so. Not that he didn't deserve it." He cocked his head. "Now what?"

"Now? Now, Sama, we go rescue Dad." At Sam's lifted eyebrows, he smiled. "Dean and Sam Winchester will always be as much a part of who we are as Mika'el and Sama'el are. And John Winchester will always be 'Dad' to that part of us."

Sam agreed, but then he frowned. "Dean, uh, Mika—"

"Hey, I'll answer to either one!"

"—okay, _Dean_ then. Won't that break the Pact?"

"Yeah—if we go _officially_ as the Archangels Mika'el and Sama'el. But as slightly more—okay, more than slightly—powerful versions of Dean and Sam Winchester, well, Hell _has_ gone after a member of our family, and we can go get him back."

Sam stood up and dusted himself off. "Let's go. I want to measure my foot against some demon's butt. And I have a few things to say to Dad, too. He had no right to dump that shit on you!"

"I don't believe it," Dean said, staring at him. "You've been weeping and wailing and gnashing your teeth over Dad's death and his being in Hell for over two years now, and as soon as we rescue him, you're going to start yet another fight?" He shook his head. "I'm clearly the only sane member of my family!"

He whacked Sam on the back of the head and started for the Impala, roaring with laughter.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

Just another long, dark, dreary day in Hell, punctuated only by the screams of the tortured souls imprisoned within. Screwtape had no idea why he had to stand guard at the Gates, instead of having fun playing with some damned soul; it's not as if anyone was actually going to try to break _in_, was it?

As he picked at his fangs with a human finger bone and remembered how much fun it had been to slice the finger's owner up, one bone at a time, he thought he caught a sound from the Outside. A low and distant growl, that grew louder by the second. Frowning, he hefted his iron lance and peered out the Gates. The growl sounded very close now, and the Gates themselves seem to shake with the fury of the onrushing beast, whatever it was.

Slightly nervous now, Screwtape considered calling for some assistance, but after remembering the fiasco last year that got him stuck here in the first place—_so_ not his fault, but did Altaroth get caught and punished? Earth, no!—he decided against doing anything before he knew that there really _was_ a danger out there.

Of course, by the time he really _did_ know, it was way too late. A sleek black form, on four wheels—Screwtape thought it was some form of Earth transportation, and by Beelzebub's balls, what was it doing here?—closed the distance between it and the Gates at an alarming rate of speed. Golden fire blazed on each front corner, behind some circular glass, and flames poured out from the rear.

Just at it reached the Gates, Screwtape realized that getting out of the way might have been a good idea. It was the last thought he had, as the black beast blew the Gates practically off their hinges on impact and proceeded to run full speed over the hapless demon. The vehicle's riders would later note that it made a very nice crunching sound.

The car came to a screeching halt and both front doors opened with a noticeable creak. The vehicle's passengers stepped out, one on either side. The shorter of the two glanced around with a smug smile.

"Oh, guys," Dean called out in a singsong voice. "The Winchester boys are here!"

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

They stood shoulder to shoulder—a somewhat-worse-for-wear Hell behind them--watching the two resplendent lights that had, in life been John and Mary Winchester, shimmer and fade. Sam found himself blinking back tears, which was just stupid. If two archangels could not visit the souls of their earthly parents from time to time, who could?

Finally, Dean stepped back and patted Sam's shoulder. "Time to go _home_, Sam. Good thing we've got such a great set of wheels."

Sam stared at his brother. "We're taking the _Impala_?"

"Hey," Dean said indignantly. "I am _not_ leaving my baby behind!"

He then stepped back and...changed. Everything was suddenly bathed in a blazing golden light and then _Dean_ was gone and in his place stood Mika'el, whose name meant "Who is Like Unto God", Prince of Angels, his great, blindingly white wings fluttering in the oven-hot wind that blew outward from Hell. The features of his face were not that different from the mortal Dean Winchester, but they now had an _unearthly_ beauty. Even without the radiant glow or the wings, it would be obvious that the owner of those features was not human.

Sam smiled and _shifted_ as well. Sama'el's light was silver to his brother's gold, and a leonine mane of rich reddish-brown hair framed his face. Mika'el glanced at his younger brother, then laughed and pumped his fist into the air.

"Yes! The Most High is on the Throne and all's right with the universe!"

"What?"

"I'm back to being _taller_ again!" His smile widened and took on a smirking edge. "As it should be." He started strolling toward the car, which suddenly seemed less like a car and more and more like a fiery steed.

Sam caught up in a few strides, then moved to the passenger side of the Impala and opened the door. "Archangel, schmarkangel. You are still such a _jerk_!"

He slid into the car—amazingly, his wings seemed to fit with no problem—and slammed the door closed behind him, the echoing sound followed a few seconds later by that of another door closing. As the car began to power forward into a great wall of light that suddenly appeared ahead of it, a few words could be heard drifting back toward the still-open Gates of Hell:

"And you are still such a bitch."

_-fin-_

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

The whole thing started while doing research on demons and angels in general for possible SN stories, when I came across the note that some groups hold that Satan's name had been Sama'el before. It sounded so much like Samuel—and the plot bunny was born! This story was also almost completed when "Houses of the Holy" aired and so before that whole discussion of the Archangel Michael (always my favorite among celestial beings)—the description of which in the show sounded so much like Dean!

Hope you liked it. Let me know what you think.


End file.
